


Touch

by Smutnug



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 07:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12626112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smutnug/pseuds/Smutnug
Summary: She doesn't like to be touched. At least, she thought she didn't.





	1. Chapter 1

“I was their Tamassran,” she says and his face goes perfectly still and blank. “For relief, you know,” she continues in case he's misunderstood. “How did you say it? To…pop your cork, when you need it.”

Bull stands abruptly and heads to his tent, and she's left bewildered. Does he mean for her to follow him, lie down for him the way she did for the Valo-kas? But no, even she can tell that's not it. She's offended him, so much he can't even speak to her. So she stays by the campfire, staring miserably into the flames.

 

* * *

 

 

Mina Adaar isn't a people person.

Oh, she likes them well enough. The more broken, the more hopeless, the more in need the better. She likes nothing more than a problem to solve but it's more than that. The Iron Bull sees her discomfort, bordering on distaste, when yet another needy petitioner clutches at her, begging her help to find a lost ring, a wayward child or lover, a place of safety. Then she gets that _look_ in her eyes. And he knows she'll do whatever it takes to give those people what they need, even, in the case of the Redcliffe mages, taking them under the Inquisition’s protection. Fuck the consequences - Mina regards the censure of her colleagues with the same bemusement as she does any social interaction.

It's baffling, and infuriating, and…kind of hot.

 

* * *

 

 

The Iron Bull makes her uneasy.

It isn't that he's Ben-Hassrath - that had terrified her in the beginning but only because of her parents’ fear of the shadowy men and women, who could lurk anywhere and have would drag them all back to live under the Qun, wipe their minds and do something to her that was too terrible to be spoken of.

But the Bull doesn't want that for her. She doesn't know how she knows, but she does.

No, what makes her uncomfortable is the casual way he touches her. She's never liked being touched, it wasn't something they did in her home. Even in the Valo-Kas she'd disdained those little touches, the clasp of wrists on greeting or the pat on the back. Some touch is inevitable but she can't understand the need for it most people seem to have.

Like Bull - a helping grip when she stumbles, or a hand on the small of her back in passing. The brush of a calloused thumb on her face when an arrow grazes her in battle. These things could be ignored if not for the heat that spreads through her any time they come into contact - that's new, and offputting, and wrong.

Sex she can understand but he doesn't seem to want that from her, and she doesn't even like sex. So what is it, these touches, this heat?

 

* * *

 

 

Things he doesn't put in his reports:

That her hair is the dark, rich red of spindleweed.

That her clothes look like they've been made to fit a tall human man, and all her sleeves are a little too short. That when Josephine has new clothing commissioned, form-fitting and tailored to her height, she stands a little bit straighter, enough that only he would notice.

That her laugh is rare and sudden, a sultry, unexpected sound that makes those around her turn and smile.

That Blackwall worships the ground she walked on, not as the Herald but as a woman, and it makes his gut clench with something suspiciously like jealousy.

That her lips are pink and full and late at night when he's balls-deep in some kitchen girl he finds himself wishing for a frame more sturdy yet still perfectly, roundly female. For the taste of salt sweat on skin that's pale and greyish like his own, for curling black horns he could grip as she rides him with that long red hair streaming over her shoulders.

That he wants to kiss the spot where her horns meet her skin. Sometimes it looks a little dry and he imagines how it might itch, how it would feel to rub scented balm into her skin and hit that spot right at the base of her horns, the one that would make her moan with contentment. His cock twitches just imagining that moan.

That even now when she casts she does so with an eye to her surroundings, with a guilty, fearful set to her mouth that most might miss, but he sees it. Sees it, and hungers to make it disappear because she shouldn't be afraid, she's strange and powerful and fucking magnificent.

 

* * *

 

 

“So, this merc company you ran with.”

“Valo-kas.” It's a clear night in the Hinterlands; the moonlight illuminates their little camp, gleaming off the scouts’ helmets and the broad expanse of the Iron Bull's shoulders.

“Yeah. They weren't too squeamish about the magic thing?”

“Squeamish?” Mina cocks her head, considering. “No. They approached me. Followed the rumours to our door - if they weren't armed to the teeth my da would have run Shokrakar through with a pitchfork.”

“Where’d they come from, your folks?”

 _Don't tell anyone anything,_ her ma would say. _If they talk to you, pretend you don't speak Common. If they speak Qunlat, pretend you're dumb._

“I don't know,” she says truthfully. “They didn't like to talk about it.” She tugs at her sleeves. “For a while we lived near Kirkwall, but when the Arishok came we moved away. We had a farm near other Tal’Vashoth in the hills outside Markham, but there was trouble…” She bites her lip, falling silent.

“Mage trouble?” Bull asks gently.

“You could call it that.”

_Why was he bleeding, da?_

_They cut out his tongue, little one._

“So we kept to ourselves. When ma got sick I did a little healing to buy medicine, and word got around.”

“She make it?”

“Yes. The cold still gets in her lungs sometimes.”

“So you were a healer. For the mercs.”

“Sometimes…and when things got ugly I could help out with a barrier, or lightning, but Shokrakar didn't want me to cast too often in case the Templars came down on us. Or other Vashoth, or humans.”

“People don't like Qunari much,” Bull observes. “Or mages. Qunari mages…” He whistles softly. “Might as well walk around with a damn target on your back.” His eye narrows. “So you can fight without magic?”

“No, I had other jobs.”

That's when she makes the mistake of telling him, and after that he doesn't touch her any more. She misses it more than she would have expected.

 

* * *

 

 

Bull is filled with a rage that has no outlet, growing in his chest and making bile rise in his throat. Tal’Vashoth motherfuckers. He can picture it - a Vashoth mage with some talent for healing, and when they'd found her she was little more than a sheltered kid, desperate for protection and ignorant of the ways of the world, let alone the Qun, all but blind to social cues. And a pretty thing with those big eyes and those curves, that hair - those mercs might have chosen not to live under the Qun but the ones who'd known it still missed its perks.

 _So?_ A cold, cynical part of his brain points out the hypocrisy. _You were happy to visit the Tamassrans when you had a need. You told her it was just like going to a healer, remember? You think every one of those women wanted your dick in them? Or every other Antaam soldier in Seheron?_

 _Not the same,_ he insists to himself. _They were chosen. Groomed. Trained._

_And that makes it different? You walked away in Seheron. How many people get away with that? How bad did it have to get before the re-educators seemed like a better option? And in the meantime you went to get your cork popped with no more thought than if you were taking a piss._

_That's the Qun. This… this is not the Qun._

_Why are you angry? Because some Tal’Vashoth assholes twisted your culture for their own purposes? Because of what they made her do? Or because they made you doubt yourself?_

“Fuck,” he curses softly. How can he look at her after this? How can he ride and walk and fight by her side without thinking of her being used, night after night, without thinking of the ones he used in the same way?

_Remembering their faces doesn't make you a good man, Hissrad._

 

* * *

 

 

“I'm sorry I offended you,” Mina says, blunt as always. “I didn't think you minded me being Vashoth.”

The Bull looks down at the neck of his sturdy mount. “I wasn't offended,” he grumbles. “Not by you.”

“But you stopped talking to me.”

“I was angry.”

“Why?”

He turns to her with disbelief written clear on his features - she doesn't care, she's used to it. “They used you.”

“No - I was paid, same as everyone.”

“It's not the same.”

“Why?” She couldn't swing a maul like Shokrakar, or put an arrow in someone's eye at twenty paces like Kaariss, or even wrangle contracts like Taarlok. But she could keep everyone contented - the roads could be long, and whores willing to service an oxman few and far between.

“Because…” He sighs. “Let me ask you this - did you like it?”

“Sure. I got to see new places. They had my back, if I needed. It could be fun sometimes.”

“I mean the sex, Mina.”

He's never called her by her name before - it throws her for a moment, how much she likes the sound of it in his gruff voice. “I don't know.” She'd ask him if he likes his job, leading the Chargers, swinging an axe for the Inquisition, but the answer is self-evident. “Is that important?”

Now she thinks of it, Ashaad did grumble once that she could at least pretend like she was enjoying herself. _You want me to smile more?_ she'd asked, and he said _never fucking mind_ and carried on. Kaariss, who watched her with cow eyes and wrote her poems, had tried kissing her on her mouth and neck, touching her and asking _do you like that_ until finally when he'd suckled on her breasts she'd said _yes_ to shut him up. It might have been quite a pleasant sensation, she thinks now, with the right person.

There it is again, the heat, and he isn't touching her. Just looking at her with an expression she might describe as sad. Mouth downturned, brow creased - is it pity? Why pity her, of all people? “They were nice to me,” she says stiffly. “They didn't jeer, or throw stones” - at this the tip of her tongue sneaks out, unconsciously probing the thin scar across her lips - “or threaten to sew my mouth shut. I don't see why you're angry.”

Bull's massive shoulders slump. “Forget it, boss, ” he says, like a thing can just be forgotten. “It doesn't matter.”

 

* * *

 

 

It's something he tries to put from his mind in the following months, but if it's possible he feels more fiercely protective of her than ever. He sees how bewildered she is by Blackwall’s tentative attentions and sometimes it's all he can do not to drag the man into a dark corner, wrap a hand around his throat and tell him to keep his sad, hungry eyes to himself.

Then he thinks about dark corners, and throats, and the unspeakable things he'd like to do to her, and he knows himself for a hypocrite.

At Halamshiral he's grateful for how oblivious she is - would it even bother her, to know how they snigger behind her back? They look at the Inquisitor like she's some large, not-very-exotic animal and maybe she wouldn't even care, but he'd crush a score of noble heads to paste before he'd find out.

But she triumphs in the end, of course she does because she's Mina fucking Adaar and suddenly they can't get enough of her. It's him, then, who gets to lead her onto the dance floor. To guide her graceless movements with his own sure hands and feet, to feel the heat of her waist and the flutter of her breath against his ear.

 

* * *

 

 

Curiosity gets the better of her. _Why not?_ she thinks. He's open about his rampant sexuality. He likes her well enough. Perhaps he's just waiting for her make the first move? So she does, crawling into his tent late one evening on the Storm Coast where they met. Not before hesitating long enough outside that she's soaked through by the time she does, dripping rain water all over his bedroll.

He's awake, one wary eye shining. Perhaps she shouldn't sneak up on a Ben-Hassrath but who else has her bulk and height, what assassin would move with so little finesse?

“Boss,” he says carefully.

“Bull.” Chilled hands fumble with her straps. “I wondered if -”

“No.” There's no emotion to the word - it's a flat, blunt rejection, not open to interpretation.

“Oh.” Her hands still. “Why?”

“You're the Inquisitor. Besides, Qunari don't fuck their friends.”

“We're friends?” she asks, surprised.

“Sure, boss. You didn't think we were?”

“I don't know. I don't have much to compare to…but I wasn't sure you liked me, after what I told you.”

“I like you fine,” he protests. “Why would you think I didn't?”

“You were funny with me. You stopped touching me.”

“I didn't think you liked to be touched.” She's pleased to have a friend, but his gravelly whisper is confusing to her - it makes her want to continue stripping off her armour, to know how his skin would feel next to hers.

“I don't mind so much. When it's you.”

There's a moment, no longer than a few careful breaths, when the air is charged with possibility. Then Bull pats her on the hand. “I'll remember that, boss. You're freezing. Got any dry clothes?”

“I do, somewhere.” She's already backing out, careful not to snag her horns on the canvas. “Night, Bull.”

Once outside she stands in the rain a while longer, letting it cool her flaming cheeks.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Fuck._ Guilt and arousal war within him as his hand urgently finds his cock, dragging hard from root to tip. She just offered herself to him, matter-of-fact, not coy or begging or the thousand other ways lovers had come to him in the past.

And he could have had her. Could have wrapped his fist in that spindleweed hair and tasted the long column of her throat, could have rolled her onto her belly and jerked up her hips and just _had_ her, pounded into her over and over without fear of breaking her except in the way that mattered, in the way that would have her shaking and screaming his name in agony and ecstasy.

If not him, who? Blackwall would be happy enough to get those long legs around him and mumble words of devotion and worship as he fucks her but that's not what she needs.

She needs that armour stripped away, the armour she doesn't even know she's wearing. She needs that body unlocked an inch at a time, needs him to show her its secrets, needs to yield control to someone who knows the right mix of gentle and savage to get the blood roaring in her ears.

She needs him, and fuck it all, he needs her.

 

* * *

 

 

Mina would offer herself to him again as they venture back to the Storm Coast for the dreadnought run - he's got that tension in his spine, a tightness around his good eye that in her experience could be lifted by a quarter hour lying between her legs.

It's not her own pride that keeps her from his tent but his. This matters to him, this Qun that her parents fled. It's more a part of him than her magic is of her, and as much as he mistrusts this offer of alliance he needs to see it through. As himself, not the Tal’Vashoth role he's been playing all these years.

Should it frighten her, that his name was _Liar?_ It doesn't, but she thinks perhaps it frightens him.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes time for Bull to be dragged back out of his shell after it all goes south. Time, an assassination attempt, drinks with his boys, and the Inquisitor in a new outfit.

“What's that you're wearing?” he asks, his mouth going dry as she sways towards him.

“I thought you'd know,” she replies, confused. “Josephine called it an antaam-saar.”

"I know what it is, boss. I just…damn.” He's thankful for his loose pants. He wants to suck marks into the skin of that smooth belly, push away the fabric barely hiding the swell of her breasts and take the whole damn things in his mouth, one and then the other. And those ropes criss-crossing her skin are giving him _thoughts,_ thoughts of her bound and at his mercy, thoughts of him shifting her limbs like a puppet as she's splayed open on his cock…he clears his throat.

“You want to join me and the Chargers for a drink later?”

Crowds aren't really her thing, he knows, but she's familiar with the Chargers. They get her offbeat sense of humour and they recognise a fellow misfit when they see one. It's been hinted, more than once, that if Bull ever decides to settle on one person he could do worse for himself than the Inquisitor.

“I'd like that,” she says, and now he gets to see her walk away, fabric clinging to her hips and ass in all the right places.

He's happy to see she's still wearing it hours later - nights can get chilly in Skyhold but she runs hot, same as him. When she's at the bar beside him he can't help putting his hand on her for a second, the bare skin of her back radiating heat like a furnace.

_She doesn't mind when it's you._

It goes like this, all evening: he looks at her. She looks at him. He looks away, and back, only to find her still looking. Then it's her turn to look away, the pointed tips of her ears and her apple cheeks glowing pink. When she finally gets up to leave she doesn't say a word - the Chargers are roaring with laughter at something, to be honest he hasn't been paying attention, and only he and Krem see the look she gives him before she takes the stairs.

“Well?” His lieutenant’s looking at him like he's grown an extra pair of horns.

“Well, what?” he grumbles.

“Chief, I'm not the Ben-Hassrath here.”

“ _Ex-_ Ben-Hassrath.”

“Does that mean you've lost your ability to read people? ‘Cause a blind nug could tell you to follow the Inquisitor up those stairs.” The Vint nudges him hard in the ribs. _“Now.”_

He follows.

 

* * *

 

 

It's dim on the upper balcony. Her head swims a little - it takes a bit to get her drunk but the Chargers are nothing if not encouraging when it comes to downing pints. She's starting to feel a bit foolish when the stairs finally creak behind her.

Then there's a broad chest pressed against her back, big hands spanning her waist and open lips, hot and rough and hungry on her shoulder.

“Mina,” he growls, and if he could fuck her with just a word it would be that. It slides between her thighs like water, curls warm and throbbing in her belly.

She twists in his arms and he walks her back against the wall. A tug at her antaam-saar bares her breast to the night air, then his lips find her again and _there_ it is, the feeling that eluded her with Kaariss. The hot, slippery feel of his mouth wrapped around her nipple, the draw of lips and tongue that tugs at her nerves, the building tightness, the pulse between her legs.

“Bull…” She moans. Her hips are moving, she realises with mortification, seeking his, her hands are running over any exposed skin she can find and with Bull that's a lot of skin. But when she reaches for his belt he growls. Lightning-fast he catches her wrists, pinning them hard against the wall.

“Not yet.” He catches at the fabric covering her other breast with just his teeth, and when he tugs it up and scrapes at her stiff nipple it's almost painful, yet somehow not painful enough.

“Please.” This time he nips the soft skin on the underside of her breast, immediately softening the sting with his tongue. When she whimpers he repeats it in another spot, and another, only pausing to worry and tug at her nipples. She hooks an ankle around the back of his leg - it's a plea more than anything, she doesn't delude herself that she has the power to move him. But he reads her silent request and presses closer. Now she can feel the hard, heavy length of him at her hip. Now she can rub up against him, brazen as a cat begging for affection, starved not for touch but for the right touch, _his_ touch. Her head falls back, her horns making a sharp clatter against the stone wall.

“Mina.” It's no less sensual the second time he says it. He abandons her breasts, exposed and tender and wet with his saliva. “You want this?” Pulling her wrists high above her head, he gathers them into one hand before wrapping the other gently around her throat. “I want to take you apart, Mina. I want to make you feel things you've never felt before. I want to tie you up and spread you open and lick and suck every inch of you. I want to _mark_ you, Mina. Do you want that?”

“Yes,” she gasps.

“Anything you don't want?” His silver-green eye holds her captive as surely as his strong hands.

_“Nothing.”_

That molten gaze is fixed on her a moment longer, then he nods abruptly and releases her. It's all she can do to slide her arms down the wall, letting them rest limp on top of her head as he tucks her breasts back inside her antaam-saar.

“Good. I'll come to you tomorrow night. If you change your mind between then and now just lock your door. I won't push it.”

There's a single parting gesture before he vanishes into his room, the brush of his hands over her flat belly and she sees him smile at the ticklish jump of her muscles. He'll remember that, she knows with certainty. He'll use that.


	2. Chapter 2

 

He half expects the door to be locked. It would make for an awkward walk back through the hall - so far he's strode past the chattering nobles with confidence, heading to the Inquisitor’s private quarters like he has every right to be there. They might think he's there to talk tactics, or payment, or any number of things, but even if they don't then seriously, two Qunari fucking can't be the biggest scandal in Thedas, can it?

There's a satisfying click before the door swings open.

She's sitting on the bed, dressed in her tunic and leggings. Next time - if there's a next time - he might make her wait naked. Maybe bent over the desk, or kneeling with her hands splayed against the wall. Perhaps he'll order her to touch herself while she waits, get herself good and slick for him.

“Take that off,” he orders, and she jumps like she's done something wrong. “You're not in trouble, Mina.” He nods meaningfully at her tunic and her fingers go to work on the buttons. “I'll let you know if you're in trouble.” That sends a gratifying blush to the tips of her ears.

What's she wearing under there? Breastband, something lacy…maybe nothing? When she shrugs it off her shoulders there's a linen shift remaining, nipples peaking prettily through the thin fabric. He grows hard remembering those dark little pearls, the way they rolled under his tongue. But when she reaches for the neck of her shift he grunts, shaking his head. “Leave that for now.”

The laces of her leggings are next. It's cute how she struggles to get the bunched fabric down over her ankles, swaying a bit when she has to tug hard at the second leg.

“Good girl. Come here.” He's watched her grow in confidence over the past year, from the bewildered, naive kid he met on the beach to a true leader, with all the frustrations and demands that entails. He's going to strip those burdens from her. Strip everything from her.

She's nearly as tall as him but it's a powerful feeling to take her jaw between his thumb and fingers and tilt her chin up, force those sea-green eyes to meet his. It's a little chin for her size - her features are surprisingly delicate. And her lips are so much softer than his own. When he traces them with his thumb, her eyelashes flutter.

“Were you wet, after I left you last night?” Her eyes widen in surprise. He steps closer, wrapping his hand around the back of her neck. “Were the tops of your thighs all slippery? Your smalls soaked through?”

He thought he might have to force the answer from her, so it's a surprise when he hears her husky “Yes.”

“Good girl.” He can't decide where to start. Thumb those taut nipples through her shift? Slip his hands under there and feel her, warm and soft and heavy in his palms? He decides on tugging the laces free until the neck gapes - he guesses she pulls it up over her hips when she dresses, rather than risk it catching on her horns. She breathes unsteadily as he slips it down over her shoulders, rough fingertips lingering at the swell of her breasts before he lets it slide down her hips to the floor.

Now it's time to turn her to the evening light spilling in from the balcony. Skin the colour of pale coffee, diluted with milk the way the Orlesians drink it. It doesn't matter that she's not a warrior, she's still a Qunari, as finely muscled as Dennett’s most prized horses. Sturdy thighs and generous hips, heavy, firm breasts tipped with dark little nipples.

“Hair,” he says and she reaches up, lets the long red locks tumble over her shoulders, brushing the outsides of her tits. Fuck, she's magnificent.

 

* * *

 

 

She's trembling under that heavy-lidded gaze. There's an implied threat in his stillness - when his fingers flex she jumps again, and he hushes her like he might a startled animal.

“Shhh. You don't have to be scared of me, Mina. You can say no. Any time, say ‘Katoh’ and I'll stop. Say it.”

“I don't want you to stop,” she says quietly, and he laughs.

“I haven't started yet. Say it, so I know you remember what it is.”

“Katoh.” She frowns. “What if I forget it later?”

“If you forget, just say stop. But don't get pissed if I stop. OK?”

Mina nods, even though it seems over-complicated. Why should stop mean anything but stop? Then Bull steps closer and she stops thinking.

“I'm going to kiss you.” He pauses, giving her a chance to say no, stop, Katoh. Then his mouth is on hers, his tongue coaxing her lips apart, and suddenly she understands the point of kissing. It's in the way he tastes her, the way she feels him smile at her soft sound of surprise, the warm, melting feeling spreading from her belly and down her thighs. Tentatively, not wanting to give him any reason to stop, she hooks her fingers into his shoulder harness.

That seems to be acceptable. His hands are everywhere - skimming over her hips, squeezing her cheeks, running up and down the backs of her thighs. The rough pads of his fingertips scratch her skin and she wonders what they'd feel like inside her. And that's when he stops, breathing heavily.

“You haven't kissed much before, huh?”

“Oh. Was it that bad?”

His eyebrow shoots up. “Shit. No, you're great. It's those sounds you make, like it's your first time drinking cocoa.”

“I've been kissed,” she confesses. “But…not like that.”

“You ever come?” His knuckle drags between her breasts and down her belly, rubs at the front of her smallclothes in a way that makes her whole body twitch.

“I don't think so. But I want to.”

Bull takes a long, slow breath, his chest expanding beneath her hands and relaxing with the puff of air out his nose. Then he grins. “On the bed, boss.”

 

* * *

 

The mercs of the Valo-kas company must have had very little imagination. Or Mina really wasn't into it. Either scenario makes Bull seethe. It doesn't matter if it's their job or not, you take care of your partner’s needs. That's just _polite._ And where's the fun in bedding someone who's not getting off, in taking without giving? Might as well fuck your own hand.

It's no issue of hers, he knows that much. All he's done so far is pinch her nipples a bit, scratch his blunt nails down the inside of her thighs, lick at her belly to feel the muscles jump and quiver, and she's so on edge he could bring her undone with the single brush of a finger.

Just now he'd rather sit back and admire the view. She balked a little at having her wrists bound but he talked her through it, arranged her comfortably with a pillow behind her neck and one beneath her hips before he wound the soft rope up her arms and lashed each one to the bedpost. Now she's beaded with sweat, breathing fast and high as he drags her smallclothes down her hips. He can smell the briny, musky scent of her arousal, see it shining on her thighs and dampening the deep auburn curls closest to her sex.

“Soon,” he promises and she whines - fuck, who wouldn't want to hear those little sounds she makes and watch those strong thighs clench with need? “That'll just be the first time. I'm gonna make you come over and over again.” He rubs little circles in the hollow of her ankle and presses his thumbs into the muscle of her calf until she groans. Then bends her leg and spreads it wide, with a low directive not to move. When he's finished doing the same to her other leg she's on full display, flushed dusky pink and glistening.

When he kisses her belly again she bucks up and he has to hold her down, pressing his thumbs hard into her hips. “Easy there.”

“Bull please, _please…”_

Lower, and he breathes against her spread folds, hearing her voice climb high and reedy until he wonders if she might get there on her own, the way her cunt’s clenching desperately around nothing. But she's begging and he wants, he needs to taste her.

He was right, just one lick and she's shaking apart, wailing like she's in pain. Two fingers inside her and her back bows. He doesn't let up, working at her clit with lips and tongue, chasing her up the bed when she squirms away, pumping those fingers faster and harder until she's screaming and sobbing but she doesn't say the word. And when his hand is a slippery mess, his chin coated with her arousal, she breaks again, her hips bucking lazily against him.

 

* * *

 

 

There's hardly any point in keeping her tied after the first few times she comes, she's too limp and sated to move. So she lies there as he massages her wrists and kisses the tears that won't stop flowing from her eyes.

“I'm sorry,” she murmurs. “I don't know why I'm crying.”

“It happens that way sometimes.” He rocks back on his heels and goes to work on her legs, easing out the lingering stiffness there.

It seems unfair that he's still clothed - as clothed as Bull gets, anyway - when he's seen inside her very skin, pulled her apart from the inside. With an effort she rubs the back of a foot against his clothed cock and finds it gratifyingly hard.

“Yeah, no surprises there.”

“Take it off,” she says weakly.

“You don't give the orders here, Inquisitor.”

“Please. I want to see you.”

The mattress springs up as he leaves the bed, returning to press a glass of water into her hand. He doesn't need to order her to drink it, parched as she is and hoarse with screaming his name.

His boots and brace were off before he climbed on the bed, and next his harness falls to the floor and he smirks, treating her to a theatrical roll of his shoulders. When his belt is off his pants sag around his hips and it's seemingly only the tent in the front that's keeping them in place.

The bed groans in complaint again as his body presses the length of hers. Then his rough fingers run up the sensitive skin above her hip.

“Bull!” she protests and he chuckles.

“I like seeing you squirm. Do you like it?”

She bites her lip, looking away. Next thing his free hand is fisted in her hair, painfully tight near her scalp. “Mina,” he growls, and it's both a caress and a warning. “This doesn't work if you're not honest with me.”

Mina writhes as he brushes his knuckles over her belly. “I don't think I like it when you just tickle me. But when you do that, too…”

“This?” He pulls, gathering more hair into his grip.

“Yes,” she gasps. “Like that.”

He pulls her head back to bare her throat, scraping and nipping and sucking as his fingers tighten and loosen in her hair. And his other hand trails down, down, teasing at her folds and coaxing another, gentler orgasm from her. It's like she's floating, tugged gently between pain and pleasure.

“Bull,” she moans, insistently pulling at the waistband of his pants. Half of one bare buttock is revealed when he catches her hand.

“You should rest.”

“Do you need to rest?”

“No, but I didn't come four times in the last hour. And I don't have a mountain of Inquisitorial crap to deal with in the morning.”

“The morning…” she sighs. That's it, then. He'll go - he's got no reason to stay - and this new, precious thing will slip out of her grasp. Unless… “I'll rest.” She smiles lazily. “If you keep doing things to me.”

“This isn't a negotiation, Adaar.” But when she runs a hand down her body, squeezes her breast and arches her back, he hisses with desire. “Fine,” he grunts. “But if I see you putting in any effort at all, I'm stopping."

 

* * *

 

She wasn't joking. Now she knows what it's all about, next time she'll probably be all squeezing thighs and thrusting hips and hoarse, noisy pleasure. But now she's just splayed out on the sheets with that glorious fucking red hair streaming out everywhere, following his movements with heavy-lidded eyes. When he finally gets his pants off and eases his cock into her she gives a little sigh of happiness that makes his chest tight.

It's been a long time since he's been with a Qunari. Who was the last? A breeding partner? A Tamassran? Don't think about that. Since leaving Seheron he's had his dick in orifices of all races and genders, but somehow he's avoided fucking a Vashoth.

Until her.

There’s something so familiar about that heat around him, the way her silky cunt grips him but still welcomes him in, taking his length almost greedily. He’s slow with her, rocking in and out and watching the soft sway of her tits until he can’t keep from burying his face in the valley of her chest. That’s another revelation, that he can stretch out over her without crushing her, can easily kiss her mouth and neck without requiring contortions that make his battle-bruised body scream in protest. There’s more than one reason he has the kitchen girls go on top.

Not any more. If she’ll have him again, he’s got plans for her that don’t leave room for anyone else. He wants to see her ride him, sure, see that wild red hair cascading over her bouncing tits and her mouth open in a perfect _O_ of satisfaction. But he also wants her back against his chest, his cock pounding into her oiled ass as he fucks her cunt with his fingers, or something bigger, something custom-made and ordered from Val Royeaux. He wants to shackle her to the wall, maybe that light sconce right there if it’s strong enough, and fuck up into her until she blacks out. He wants her tied up and bent over the desk, forwards then backwards. He wants to take her over the balustrade, on her throne, on the War Table, scratch her up with his nails and teeth, break her down into her smallest parts and build her back up again.

They could take down a dragon together, couple while still covered in blood and scales, _fuck_ that would be hot. Or better yet, take her up against its carcass, their hands entwined, pressed up against its cooling hide…

With that thought he’s coming, flooding her with seed and there’s a look on her face of sheer, sleepy bliss.

“Fuck, I didn’t think,” he says. “I should have pulled out.”

Mina bats away his concerns with a lazy hand. “I’ll get some witherstalk tomorrow,” she murmurs.

“Did you come?”

“Can’t you feel it?” And he can, the minute twitches and shivers that show she was there with him the whole time.

 

* * *

 

She’s afraid he might go then, but he bends to clean up their combined mess with his rough, sinuous tongue, and before he’s finished he’s brought her undone again. Then he tastes every inch of her, as promised, nibbling and hurting and soothing, sucking deep purple bruises into secret places.

By the time he’s finished he’s hard again, and he rolls her onto her belly and enters her again in one swift movement. The sting of his hand on her backside is unexpected, as is the heat that floods through her and the soothing, squeezing movement of his fingers.

“You like that?”

“Yes,” she whimpers, and she’s shocked to find that it’s true.

“More of that another time,” he growls, and her heart sings. _Another time._ Then his hips snap hard and fast against her, and all she can think of is the pounding heat between her legs, the aching, stretching burn, and when he grips her horns and thrusts home harder there’s a spot that makes her arch and cry, makes her come faster and harder and longer than any time before.

 

* * *

 

Time to go, once he’s cleaned her up and arranged her comfortably. If there was any question before there’s none now, she’s utterly spent. But when he rises to leave she grabs his wrist with surprising speed and force.

“No,” she mumbles against the pillow. “Stay with me.”

It’s not the way he usually does things, but then what about this is his usual way? He’s got to admit the thought is appealing, to lie down and mold his body to hers, to spend all night with his hand resting on the little dimples on her lower back. To wake up early, perhaps, and see if she’s awake too…

“They’ll talk,” he warns her.

“Nnnf,” she says, and falls asleep.

Nothing for it, then. He stretches alongside her. His mind is swimming with dangerous thoughts of the future. He wants to know more about her childhood, how her lip came to be split by a stone, how her family came to be called Adaar, _weapon._ Her first time, if it was gentle, if there’s any merc in the Free Marches who needs his arms ripped off. He thinks about what that flat, ticklish belly would look like swelling with child, like a ripening fruit.

Ridiculous. She might wake up in the morning and kick him out. But she wouldn’t do that, he thinks, not his k-

Go to sleep, you fuck-drunk idiot, he thinks to himself. There’s time for that later, if there’s a later. What will come will come. And he drifts off, the scent of her hair winding into his dreams.

 

* * *

 

“What are you thinking?” she says when she wakes to find him still there, watching her with that one green eye. She reaches out and traces the scars on his face and he smiles a slow, contented smile.

“I’m glad you let me touch you.”


End file.
